Life had become quite formulaic for John Watson: he got up, stretched his leg, had a shower, made the tea, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched crap telly, made more tea, and went to bed. Rinse, lather, repeat. It had been like this for the past few weeks—ever since his nightmares had started coming back. He just moved through his daily motions on autopilot, not really thinking about anything he was doing. His nightmares resurfacing had been the final straw to vacationing from Baker Street. Before that, he had been doing very well—or as well as could be expected, anyway—but ever since, he had taken up using his cane again, attending regular therapy sessions, and sleeping in his old flat rather than dwelling in the loneliness of 221b.

At first he promised Mrs. Hudson that he would only be spending the weekend there to get some 'fresh air.' But two days turned into two weeks, and two weeks turned into two months. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how his salary from the surgery was capable of paying both rents, but he didn't question it. He didn't question much of anything these days. He just woke up, stretched his leg, had a shower, made the tea, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched crap telly, made more tea, and went to bed.

And today was no different.

Just as usual, John woke up. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Of course. Not enough time to fall back asleep but too much time to just lie there. If that wasn't the story of his life, he didn't know what was. Grudgingly, he decided to get the waking up bit over with and sat up.

Bad idea. His leg ached fiercely, and his vision blurred from changing positions too quickly. Another glance at the clock reassured that he had some time to kill. Maybe he should try some of that Reichian therapy* after all…

With a huff, he carefully lay back down on his bed. He bent his legs and planted his feet a comfortable distance from his body so that his knees were in the air. He then laid his arms beside him, slightly bending his elbows. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to relax by taking deep, slow, rhythmic breaths.

In…out…in…out…

Initially he had been against this 'Reichian therapy' because it had reminded him too much of…well…Sherlock… But now that he was actually doing it, the only bad thing he could say about it was that, in order to get the 'best results' (as his therapist had guaranteed), he had to keep his eyes open the entire time, save blinking.

After a little over a quarter of an hour, John felt refreshed enough to try facing the day once more. Before he did so, he ended his therapy session with a 'spoken report' of the physical sensations he felt, just as his therapist had instructed him to do. "Let's see then… Eyes are tired, but that's to be expected, I guess. Leg feels much better—not as tight, for sure. Shoulder could use some work, but who's complaining… And…ego is bruised for having to talk to myself in an empty flat." He paused. "Right then… Guess I should get up now."

With that, he sat up again, this time much more slowly. ("Always move too slowly when practicing Reichian therapy.") For a minute he sat on the edge of his bed, feet hovering above the floor. He sighed. This was it. The moment that his feet touched the floor, going on with his daily routine would become inevitable. He stared hatefully down at the floorboards. It was all a bit pointless, really—getting up, going to work, eating—in the grand scheme of things, did any of it really matter?

No, John, the doctor in him scolded. The last thing you need right now is to have an existential crisis.

He sighed. He knew the voice in his head was right. "Yeah, I s'pose so," he responded out loud, and he slid off of the bed.

Before padding off to the bathroom, he stopped by his desk. On it rested a small, peel-off calendar riddled with Afghan proverbs. Mrs. Hudson had recently gotten it for him as a birthday present. Despite the somber and terrible memories he had of the war and of being stationed in Afghanistan in the heat of battle, he really did appreciate the Afghan culture and was transfixed by how much knowledge and beauty a simple poem or proverb could hold.

He peeled off yesterday's date ("Tu ba ma, ma ba tu—You to me, and me to you") and read the proverb for today.

Zendagi Migzara, it read. Life goes on.

John paused, yesterday's page crumpled in his hand. How fitting. Today marked the three year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten. How could one possibly forget the day his best friend committed suicide? That day had arguably been—no—that day had been the worst day of his life. Not even getting shot in the shoulder compared to the pain that welled inside his heart from losing the best man he'd ever known. But with work and therapy and the avoidance of 221b, John had seemed to slip away from reality and had finally begun to move past Sherlock's fall. He had busied himself with simple tasks—making tea, cleaning, yoga, even—anything to keep his mind off of that day. And so far it had worked. So far he had managed to fool himself into believing that he was doing well. That he was fine. But even after all of these days, weeks, years, as he stared emptily at the proverb, he knew that he wasn't.

What was there to do, though? What choice did he have other than to keep moving forward, to keep pressing on? It wasn't logical to do anything else...

Life goes on even if people refuse to...

He tightened his fist around the crumpled paper and closed his eyes. No. He would not allow himself to do that. He would not allow himself to be reduced to nothing. John Watson was a soldier. He was strong. He had been waiting for three years.

It was time to move on.

A productive day at the surgery proved to be just what the doctor ordered. He'd helped eleven patients today, all of which left their appointments smiling. John was even smiling a little himself. It felt good to help people again. It felt good to be needed.

At the end of the day, he bid his coworkers goodnight, locked up his office, and walked out onto the London streets. To his disappointment, there had been an accident nearby, and traffic was completely at a standstill. Looks like he'd have to walk.

No matter, a bit of London air never hurt anyone.

He zipped up his jacket, gripped his cane, and started heading towards his flat.

It was only after he'd gone about three blocks that he noticed someone was following him.

While he waited for the 'pedestrian crossing' signal to flash at the next crosswalk, John discretely glanced over his shoulder to get a better look at the person pursuing him. It was a man, immaculately dressed despite the bitter December weather. And was he wearing sunglasses? Really? It was nearly half-past eight and dark, save the city lights. John shook his head and resumed walking as the signal changed.

Posh. I can take him.

About one hundred feet before he reached the end of the next block, John noticed another immaculately dressed man. He was standing stiffly by the street and was watching the doctor walk toward him. This man looked identical to the man behind John who was much closer now.

Okay, that's a bit weird...

Wanting only a nice cuppa and to watch some crap telly, John turned down a side-street and continued on. But he only took two steps before he stopped cold.

"Oh, for God's—you have got to be kidding me," he said aloud.

A sleek, black car was parked in front of him, the door already open.

Just then, his phone pinged with a message alert.

I trust you'll be joining me?

M

John pocketed his phone and looked over his shoulder. Both of the well-dressed men were standing at the mouth of the side-street. For a brief moment John considered attacking them; he knew he could take both of them if his leg wasn't acting up. But then again, he was dealing with the British Government. His mobile pinged again.

Get into the car, Doctor Watson.

M

John sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was see Mycroft Holmes. But, he supposed, he still had a bone to pick with him.

He pocketed his mobile, got into the car, and closed the door. Then the car rolled silently off into the night.

* Jack, Willis. Reichian Therapy: The Technique, for Home Use. 3rd ed. N.p.: n.p., 2008. 6 Dec. 2008. Web. 19 July 2013.